They would have raped her, no doubt, these three. They were soldiers, or smiths perhaps, bushy-bearded and low-browed, hands rough and bodies burly. Not pillars of intellect, to be sure. In their last moments of life their eyes had shown no recognition of their death approaching with swift step, only surprise and a sort of animal anger at being disturbed from their dirty pursuit. The girl in question was scrabbling back across the cobbles in a sit, making little panicked ah-ah-ah noises as she held up her ripped dress with her free hand. Her plain brown eyes flicked rapidly between the spectre standing before her and the three twisted corpses at his feet, seemingly trying to determine which scared her more. The black figure, limned in silver moonlight, turned its head to contemplate her. She stopped dead, gasping, as the figure quarter-turned to face her, some kind of feathered cloak swishing softly around him. The gleaming deadliness in his hand caught the moonlight as he turned, a long thin blade with slow drips of cooling blood running off the tip.
Sigurd realized he must have cut quite a figure, appearing out of the night in his raven-cloak to slaughter three would-be rapists in the space of four heartbeats, and allowed himself a small smile. He hadn't intended it to be quite so cinematic, but the moon limned everything in sharp silvery relief, edging the shoulders of his armor in white and glinting off his Ravenstern longsword. Realizing the girl, a tavern server by the look of her, still wasn't breathing, he returned the long, slender blade to its place at his side and bowed slightly to her. When she resumed her frightened noises, Sigurd extended his hand.
"Hush now, little bird. I will not hurt you." She swallowed hard, then took his hand and stood, staring at him in stark shock and disbelief. The wide brown eyes stared at him out of a plain, pale face that reminded him of the moon. She stammered for several moments, then suddenly dropped a deep curtsey.
"M-m-my l-lord," she managed, head lowered.
Sigurd laughed properly at that. "No, my dear, no lord am I. Lords sit in castles and write letters to get men to build bridges for them. We common folk must look out for one another," he said with more bitterness than he had intended. Fortunately, the serving girl did not seem to notice. "But we must get you home. Whoever let a pretty young lass like you run around at midnight in a town full of soldiers shall catch a slapping, I do declare," he said in a stuffy accent. She giggled, a high-pitched nervous sound. Still, a laugh nevertheless.
"I work in the Crooked Cob, the tavern by Lorec's stall." Sigurd looked at her blankly. "Oh, not from round 'ere then. I'll show you, milord, er, ser."
He delivered her safely to the warm, glowing bustle of the tavern, leaving her in the care of her (somewhat dithering) father, an old man who did not quite grasp the situation at first. When he realized what had happened, his profound white brows shot up and he began to shower Sigurd with praises and thanks, pouring out promises like they were going to spoil. Sigurd took his leave as quickly as he could once the inundation began; he had always been uncomfortable with gratitude as a whole, never knowing what he ought to say in return. He preferred the thanks of the man's son, holding his sister as she broke down and wept. He shook Sigurd's hand vigorously, palming him a gold coin at the same time. Sigurd left the gold with a wink. The look in the brother's eyes was all the thanks he needed.
He was too sensitive to be a mercenary on some subjects, Sigurd pondered as he walked back down the moonlit street, the light of revelry behind him. He had a very low tolerance for criminals, rapists especially. They were ranked on a par with slavers in his mind, in terms of people he would kill on sight. Personally, and in a very painful way. Gorza the sellsword had explained it to him. "Sigurd is woman's name, ja? Woman's name, you feel for the womans." Gorza had furrowed his brow at that. "Not bad though. Sigurd is strong man. Stronger for knowing the woman-mind." Perhaps Gorza had the truth of it. In any event Sigurd had no patience for rapists, slavers, and others who preyed on the weak and those who wandered off the safe path. His company was unusual in that his men knew very well to avoid raping and pillaging as many of the more prominent adventuring companies did; offenders were stripped naked and presented to one of Sigurd's newer companions, a young common girl named Kaverra, known more readily by her nickname, the Castrator.
Sigurd came back across the scene of his strike, the three men still sprawled and oozing blood onto the cobbles. Gorza was squatting between two of the bodies and Kaverra sat on a stoop nearby. "Morning, Sigurd. Making diplomacy easy as always, I see," Kaverra said, raising her eyebrows like an impatient mother. One of the reasons he'd hired her to fight was her refreshingly sharp wit. A commoner like himself, but possessed of a sort of casual genius that made her a joy to talk to and camp with. Wonderful lady, he thought to himself.
A single shout and a sudden clamor of jingling mail heralded the coming of the late watch. "Speak of the devil, here come the diplomats," Sigurd grinned.
"HOY! What's all this then, you three? Murderin' citizens in darkest night, in the very shadow of milord's castle?" The lead guardsman leered at him out of one good eye. A crew of the night watch stood behind him, spears at the ready, dressed in the blue-and-quilt of Ravenstern.
"Citizens who thought they'd have a little fun with someone who didn't want to. I do hope these aren't your soldiers," Sigurd said calmly.
"What's that meant to mean? Rapers, these three?"
"Not quite, but they tried. I believe Blackbeard here was in the process of undoing his breeches when I undid his entrails." Sigurd toed the corpse nearest to him.
"Who'd they try after? The young lass here?" The guardsman turned his leer to Kaverra until he saw her amused expression and the shining glaive rising prominently over her shoulder. "Eh, not her then. Who?"
"A young serving girl from the Crooked Cob. I saw her home safe. Gods know what she was doing out here."
The guardsman snorted and gazed down at the red ruin of the corpses, rolling over the man who'd made it furthest, about three steps. When he saw the dead rapist's rent face, he grimaced and straightened. "Did a bloody deed on these three, didn't ye? At least young Celine is safe."
"I did indeed. They're lucky I caught them before it went any further, or I would have been angry." The guards reacted with varying degrees of discomfort, some raised eyebrows and muttered curses. Sigurd regarded them with very cool blue eyes, and smiled openly at them. "Will you fine fellows want help cleaning the filth off the floor, or are we finished here? I must sleep before tomorrow."
"No, I don't know these wastrels. Or, these two I don't. Couldn't say for the one you hit in the face. They're no soldiers of ours, I don't think. Sellswords from the west or something, I imagine. You have our leave to..." the guard captain lifted his one good eye to find the three strangers vanished. "Well, bugger you too then." His men, bemused, laughed and began the unpleasant work of dragging the corpses away.
